


Dave Strider: Come Home for Christmas

by doodle_muse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Canon What Canon, Christmas, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Post-Scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:06:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodle_muse/pseuds/doodle_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dave Strider is unbelievably wealthy and successful, sings an ironic Christmas song, cannot fucking remember the best person, the most incredibly important person, the person he needs most in the world, and is miserable beyond telling.</p><p>Good thing Christmas stories are notorious for happy endings.</p><p>Can be read as gen or John/Dave--both require that you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dave Strider: Come Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece for my Tumblr buddy Hiorion, who posted some gorgeous Christmas fanart of the kids in their God Tier outfits. I couldn't resist. Technically this isn't canon now that we've seen the new updates, but I like the idea of the Beta kids struggling with memory. Hope you like, and please feel free to critique if you don't.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are so far above singing covers of iconic Christmas music that you might as well be in the troposphere.

That said, your big movie exec handlers pointed out that the club you would be singing at was fancy as hell, and it was a fundraiser, and it was _for the kids, Mr. Strider, think of what it’ll do for your image, the fans will be all over it_ and somehow they hustled your flawless, highly-coveted and over-insured ass onstage for a media bigwig Christmas party. For the kids. Of course. The irony is so thick you might actually choke on it.

It could be worse, though. Since you’re the most obscenely famous person attending this thing by six Oscars and at least two Grammys, you got to pick what you wanted to sing _and_ close out the festivities. Who are you to waste such a golden opportunity to prank a roomful of the biggest names in showbiz?

This prank is of the exceptionally subtle variety; you’re pretty sure nobody else will get it but you, which is fine. It’s not like you give two shits about any of the empty-headed starlets sipping fruity little cocktails out in the audience. The thing is, most people know you for your sick mixes, all your amazing instrumental stuff—you’ve overseen the soundtracks of every film you’ve ever directed, often writing and producing the major scores yourself. You find it incredibly amusing that nobody knows you can _sing._

When you glide nonchalantly across the stage, nothing but ironic shades and perfectly coiffed white-blond hair and expertly-tailored black suit, no turntables or mix station in sight, there are a few whispers in the crowd. _Let ‘em talk,_ says a voice at the back of your mind, that familiar-as-breathing voice you sometimes catch snippets of whenever you’re too nervous to admit to yourself that you’re nervous— _motherfuckers don’t know real talent when they see it. You gotta do your own thing, don’t let anybody bring you down._

You nod to the pianist, and her fingers dance across the keys, the grand piano resonating with the simple, elegant chords you transcribed earlier that week. Deep breath, hand on the mic, and with the casual confidence of a born performer you let the first notes rise up out of your throat:

 _I’ll be home for Christmas,_

 _you can count on me._

 _Please have snow, and mistletoe_

 _and presents on the tree…_

Your voice is smooth as well-brewed coffee, rich and sonorous, vibrating through your torso with that heady, satisfying sensation you only get when you’re singing at your very best. The first few bars of the song come easy and sweet, and you’re pretty sure at least half the club has melted into puddles of gooey adoration by the time the pianist reaches the bridge you wrote. It’s a short song, fluffy and meaningless, but you can feel something—something different, pushing at the inside of your chest as you come to the refrain—

 _I’ll be home for Christmas,_

 _you can count on me…_

You weren’t expecting this here—if it happens in public it’s a moment, a fleeting second and you can focus again. As you slide effortlessly into the last stanza of the song your whole chest goes tight and hot—and from somewhere in the darkest place in your mind you catch a feeling, something that shimmers like memory and suddenly you’re thinking _he’d love this shit, be sitting right at the lip of the stage, grinning like a buck-toothed moron_ and he would laugh gleefully over your sheet music, completely unironic and full of joy and your whole _being_ is reaching, you’re leaning into the mic, trying to catch—something, anything _Hey, so what happens if we don’t remember any of this? Haha Dave don’t worry, I’m sure we won’t forget—_ because he was sure, he was _so sure_ but now it’s just you, whatever it was whispers away as fast as it came and you’re left with nothing but the memory of a memory. You’re standing alone up here singing and it’s like you can look down at yourself, as if you were far, far away, watching from space, and suddenly you’re hit with the unadulterated weight of how _fucking unbelievably lonely you are._ You are empty and cold and there’s something inside you that was ripped out, locked up, and you can’t _remember_ , why can’t you just _remember—_

—where you are. You almost lose your place during the song’s finale, but in true cooler-than-thou Strider fashion you manage to keep your shit almost entirely unflipped, the last sweet chords falling like snowflakes as you croon,

 

 _Christmas eve will find me_

 _where the love-light gleams,_

 _I’ll be home for Christmas,_

 _but only in my dreams…_

Somewhere between your little half-bow to the deafening rush of applause and meandering back into the crowd you press the heels of your hands to your eyes, because the stage lights were bright, obviously. The not-memory thing has happened to you before. You get over it. It’s fine. Your eyes are already red and the shades hide everything, so whatever. You mingle, get slapped on the back, your cheek is kissed, anonymous hands and faces and voices— _Dave, you were so great! That was gorgeous, I just_ cried, _Dave you should sing at this event—_ It’s pretty much pointless noise. You have a feeling that stupid song is going to be rattling through your brain for a long time, though, especially the last line— _if only in my dreams, in my dreams, in my dreams._ It’s almost funny, actually, because you’ve spent your whole life vaguely curious about what a dream would feel like—you’ve never had one.

The party is slowly breaking up, security people escorting their precious human products out into the chill city air. You snag a drink from the bar and wander over to a little curved alcove, needing a minute to yourself before you adopt the patented Dave Strider Façade and dive back into celebrity schmoozeville. Someone makes their way over to you, but you’re staring at nothing and don’t pay them any mind. Just another celebribaby in a slinky purple dress, hungry for your sick nasty rhy—

“That was quite a lovely performance, Mr. Strider, although I must admit I hadn’t expected such a traditional arrangement coming from you.”

You’ve heard people describe heart attacks before, and now you’re pretty sure you know what one feels like too only this is more like your entire cardiac muscle fucking _evaporated_ with how quickly your whole body whips around. You know her. You’d know her anywhere, in any universe, eyes like chips of amethyst in a face like yours with hair like corn silk and you use the last rasping bit of air in your lungs to whisper, _“Rose.”_

Your name is Dave Strider and you can feel every derailed dead-Dave terminated timeline life you ever lived _pouring into your skull a million gallons of forgotten time all at once_ and you’re swaying on your feet and dizzy, but Rose’s hands are holding you upright and your voice cracks, desperate—she’ll analyze the shit out of that later but you don’t care—when you ask her, “Where’s _John?”_

She smiles, not her usual you-are-a-sad-transparent-creature smile but something smaller, sadder, and for the single most awful moment of every existence you’ve ever lived you think, _Oh God, oh no—he didn’t make it._

Then Rose shifts to the side a little and every aching not-a-memory that’s been eating at you since the beginning of your new life is ten feet away in a rented tuxedo, smile full of stupid teeth and blue eyes that fill you up like air and John says, _John, it’s John, it’s been a whole universe since you’ve seen his goofy stupid perfect face, and he says_ , “Hey Dave! Man, it took us forever to find you but I’m glad it was tonight, you were awesome!”

You lurch forward and his arms come around you like they never forgot that was where they belonged, and John Egbert is holding you steady while the room dissolves around you, too blurry to see.  


End file.
